


don't want the world to see me

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Episode: s09e07 Bad Boys, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's Bad Parenting, M/M, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenaged Dean gets caught stealing food and gets sent to a boy's delinquent home. He meets someone who, for the first time, might be able to truly see him - much to Dean's dismay. </p><p>based upon spoilers for 9.07.</p><p>(i wrote this before the episode aired, so forgive the flaws!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't want the world to see me

**Author's Note:**

> note: there is no penetrative sex, just a very much consentual (but still presumably underage) handjob.
> 
> also an additional warning for the physical abuse in this: it's very brief, only one or two sentences, courtesy of the 'john winchester is a massive dickbag' club.
> 
> enjoy!

Dean is sat in the ‘waiting room’ at one of the cottages within the place that they’d taken him to after the police station. He’d been caught trying to steal a few loaves of bread from the bakery next to the motel that Dad had left him and Sam in. He scuffs his feet on the annoyingly clean carpet, irritated at himself for getting caught, fearing what Dad will do when he finds out that Sammy’s alone.

The people who had taken him hadn’t listened when he told them that he _did_ have a parent, but Dad just had to leave for important work, the lady at the home only shook her head sadly and asked for his name.

He looks around at the other boys in the room, there are four others and they all look dirty and worn out, hunched over like they’re carrying the entire world on their shoulders. He smirks self-deprecatingly; none of them are like him.

A boy who looks slightly older than him catches his gaze as he looks up; he is met with sad grey eyes and a tentative, wobbly smile. _Shit_ , Dean realizes, _he thinks I was smiling at him._ He scowls at the boy and looks away, but hears what he thinks is a light chuckle as he stares back down at his knees.

 

* * *

 

The home they’ve put him in is comprised of several large cottages, all of which are fitted with 5 classrooms, a kitchen and living area, as well as a dozen dormitory-style bedrooms.

Dean walks to his allocated room with his shoulders back and tries not to look at any of the other boys shuffling through the hallway. There is a sticky, panicky feeling settling at the bottom of his stomach at the thought of sharing a room with another boy, but he shoves it down and crushes the feeling into dust.

Room 4, here goes. He squares his jaw and rolls his shoulders, then enters the room.

He dumps his blankets, bedclothes and pillow onto the worn single bed pushed against the left side of the room without glancing over at his roommate, whom he can hear shuffling around behind him.

“Hey." 

Dean bolts upright at the husky voice coming from behind him. He chooses not to reply, but spares a glace over his shoulder. _Oh god_ , it’s grey-eyes. He’s rooming with grey-eyes. _Fuck._

The boy is sitting on the other bed with his back leaning against the wall, legs splayed wide in front of him, an unlit cigarette between two fingers resting upon his thigh. His brown skin is dark against the white of his chipped teeth as his mouth stretches into a bright smirk, looking up at him through the dark hair flopping over his eyes.

“Come here often?” The boy says, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

When Dean fails to respond, he goes on; “You got a name, freckles?”

Dean stares wide-eyed for a second, feeling an involuntary blush rise to heat his cheeks, and looks away quickly back to his bed. The boy chuckles from behind him. _Don’t look at him_ , Dean berates himself.

“Hey. Mike.”

At this, Dean turns around, “That’s not my name.”

“Ah! He speaks!” The boy pulls an exaggeratedly surprised expression. “Well it didn’t look like you were gonna tell me what your name actually _is_ ,” he pulls out a lighter, “so I took the liberty.”

Dean surveys the other boy suspiciously; usually people get the hint when he doesn’t respond positively to their attention.

“I’m Jason, by the way,” Jason lights his cigarette, getting up and walking towards the window. “I can tell we’re gonna be friends, Mike.”

The urge to correct him does not overpower Dean’s desire to sleep, so he ignores the boy and gets into bed. He lays awake long after Jason finishes his cigarette, worrying about Sammy.

He hears Jason shuffle into bed a few hours later, with a soft, “goodnight.” Dean grunts in reply and turns to face the wall, falling into an uneasy slumber.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Dean dreams Sam for a while, lost and confused. Then he dreams about Jason. Specifically, he’s on top of Jason, the older boys calloused hands running down his sides, catching his swollen mouth with his teeth and – 

Then he’s alone. In a small, grey room with nothing but him and his Dad’s voice ringing frantically in his ears.

_“You’re a disgrace, fucking disgusting.”_

_“Faggot!”_

_“What would your mother think, hm Dean? You think she’d want a limp-wristed queer for a son?!”_

_“How’s a little pansy like you meant to look after Sam?”_

Dean jolts awake. Skin sweaty and throat tight. He feels sticky and grimy and sick.

He looks over at Jason’s bed where the other boy is sleeping and squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he possibly can. He does not get back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

By the time the next morning comes, Dean is hovering somewhere between consciousness and sleep. But when the light comes through the window, he gives in and opens his eyes slowly.

As he rolls over to face the open room, the fist thing he catches sight of is a dark, broad naked back. Dean’s vision becomes less sleep-hazy as he takes in the expanse of flesh on display across the room; it is littered with scars, hell, Dean doesn’t even think that _he_ has that many scars. There are small, round scars, white and creamy. Long, thin, pink scars that travel diagonally towards the dimpled small of his back. Fresh bruises that curl around to the front of his torso where Dean cannot see.

“You can ask, you know,” Jason suddenly turns around to look at Dean, he tries his best to look confused even though he knows it’s pointless. “I don’t mind." 

Dean scans his face; Jason’s eyes are droopy and earnest, staring at him with an openness that the teen just does not know what to do with.

It goes against every instinct within Dean to open this sort of dialogue with the other boy, but for a second he thinks; _I’m here. Dad’s not here. He’ll never know._

Dean props himself up on one elbow, facing Jason, the mattress creaking slightly at the movement. He clears his throat. “Battle scars?”

“Yeah,” Jason smiles softly, all the boyish hardiness of yesterday gone. “You could say that.”

Not another word is uttered between the two boys as they get dressed.

 

* * *

 

The living room is cozy and warm when they enter it later in the evening, beiges and browns coat the walls. Deep burgundy’s, looking worn and old, accentuate the wooden furniture and make the maroon sofa stand out near the back of the room.

A small number of boys are milling around, some looking sad and small and subdued, others with their chins held exaggeratedly high with stupid, false grins plastered over their faces.

Dean looks up at Jason standing next to him, traces the slope of his nose with his gaze, taking in his clenching jaw and tight mouth.

“You wanna sit?” Dean says inquisitively.

Jason seems to be snapped out of his reverie. “Hm- what? Oh. Yeah.”

They weave through the other boys littered around the room towards the sofa in silence, Dean sneaking a glance at the older boys face every time he gets a chance, making sure to never get caught. 

As they approach the sofa, one of the admin ladies who Dean had seen at the front office yesterday enters the room, holding a phone and looking vaguely bored and a lot fed-up.

“Ford!” She says loudly over the soft sounds of conversation around the room. “Dean Harrison-Ford in here?” She says the name slightly skeptically this time.

Oh, yeah, that’s the alias he used. “Y-yes, ma’am! Here!”

“Got your daddy on the line, son,” The woman hands Dean the phone gently. “Don’t sound too happy.” She then slides back out of the room, stopping to scold one of the boys for dropping a chocolate wrapper on the floor before she exits completely.

Jason raises his eyebrows at the other boy, “Harrison Ford, really?”

“Shut up.”

He looks down at the phone in his hand like a bomb, taking deep breaths; he puts it to his ear.

“Hello?” Dean mutters.

_“Hello? What am I, some goddamn stranger? Hello who?”_

Shit.

“Hello, sir.” Dean says, looking at his feet. He can feel Jason’s prodding stare on the side of his face, but he pointedly faces away from him. 

_“And don’t you fucking dare ‘hello’ me, boy. I come back from huntin’ after a wendigo for a week straight only to find your 12 year old brother alone?!”_

“Da- sir, I-." 

_“No, then I have to go talk to the fucking cops and find out my no good excuse for a son got himself caught stealing? Thrown in a fucking home?!”_

Dean heaves a shaky breath, and then brushes harshly past Jason to walk back to his room.

_“What kinda man gets caught stealing, hm? How am I supposed to trust you to look out for Sammy now? You can’t even commit crime right.”_

The ringing in his ears blocks out the sound of footsteps following him back down the hallway.

_“Now I gotta clean up your damn mess for you. Fuck.”_

“I’m sorry, sir.” Dean grinds out through clenched teeth, sitting on his bed, digging his nails into his thigh.

_“Sorry ain’t good for nothing, boy. Me and you are gonna have to have a little talk about how we’re gonna fix this after I come haul your sorry ass outta there tomorrow, you hear?”_

“Yes, sir.” He distantly acknowledges another person entering the room through his tear-blurred vision. _Fuck, what a wuss._

 _“Good.”_ The line clicks, then the drone of the dial tone sounds.

He can hear his blood pumping in his ears and he thinks his nails digging into his thigh are starting to break blood vessels, but damn, Dad’s right, how could he be so _stupid_?

And yeah, if he can’t even steal right, then how can he be expected to protect Sammy? _God, I’m useless_.

His mind comes back to his surroundings at the feeling of a gentle, warm palm pressed between his shoulder blades, rubbing small circles through his scratchy jumper.

“Hey,” Jason’s presence sitting on the bed next to him is comforting and Dean feels guilty for merely being there to experience it. “You okay?”

Dean huffs out a shaky, self-deprecating laugh, “…don’t matter,” he mumbles.

He feels the hand move from his back, then a brush of skin against his hand where his nails are digging into his thigh. Jason pries his hand open with long fingers, just holding onto his hand. Just holding.

“You’re wrong.”

Dean then glances at the older boy from the corner of his eyes, taking in his urgent expression, and meeting it with a confused, still tearful one.

“You look at everyone else in here like they’re from a completely different world than you,” Jason begins in a hushed, serious tone. Still holding onto Dean’s hand.

Well, this guy sure doesn’t hold back.

The boy tries to catch his eyes, and Dean can’t help but turn his head slightly to look into those sad, grey things. “Like you’re hiding. Like you don’t wanna be seen. And I get that, but…”

Dean braces himself, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I see you, Dean.”

He feels like he’s been shot, defensive rage rising. “What the fuck do you know about me, huh?” He begins to lash out. “Whatever you think you know, it’s wrong.” Dean snatches his hand away, but remains sitting where he is on the bed.

Jason raises his hands in surrender, an open expression on his face.

“It’s just -” He takes a slow breath in through his nose. “You show up here, nobody knows who you are or where you came from. You walk into this room posed like a soldier, don’t even tell me your name, and you call out for someone called ‘Sammy’ in your sleep, and-.”

“My brother.”

“-What?”

“’s my brother’s name, Sammy. Sam.”

“Oh.” Jason whispers, “I see.”

Dean looks over at him again. “ _You see_? What do you see?”

“I see you got demons, Dean,” the older boy says, sounding so fucking understanding, “and that’s okay.”

They sit in a tense silence for a few seconds.

Jason then squares his shoulders. “My dad is ex-military too.”

What?

“How did you know that?”

He shrugs. “Takes one to know one, that kinda thing, I guess.”

“Anyway,” Jason begins again, looking defensive. Uncharacteristic for him, making Dean intrigued as to where this is going. “Didn’t take too well do his only son being…you know.”

“Being…what?”

“You know – queer.”

Dean opens his mouth in order to speak, but Jason doesn’t give him the time to reply.

“That was 4 years ago. Finally got the guts to run away last week with nothing but the clothes on my back and the scars to show for it. Got caught tryna steal a car.” He chuckles slightly. “And, well, here I am.”

The older boy returns his gaze to Dean, a hesitant smile on his face, not expectant, however.

“I don’t expect you to tell me your story, Dean.” His expression is vulnerable. “But for what it’s worth, I think it’s probably worth telling.”

Dean swallows, “It’s not a nice story, Jason.” His mouth forming slowly around the name.

“But it’s yours, it’s the only one you have.”

Jason tentatively moves his hand back over to cover Dean’s where it is resting on the bed, looking right into his eyes, eyebrows drawn together. “You got eyes older than any teenager should, freckles.” He says, softly.

 _So have you_ , Dean wants to say.

A suddenly cheeky smirk forms on the other boy’s mouth. “Damn pretty eyes, though.”

Dean, looks down, trying to fight a smile and gravitates slowly, unconsciously across the bed, shifting so his thigh is pressed against Jason’s firm one.

Jason then slowly places his finger under Dean’s chin, raising his head with a steady pressure. “It’s okay, Dean. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

He feels vulnerable and raw underneath the pressure of the older boy’s heavy gaze, like his skin is being stripped from his flesh and the pink tissue underneath being exposed for the world to see.

Heat from Jason’s body is pulsing through Dean’s, the points where their bodies are pressed warmly together are electric, buzzing and Dean can’t fucking think straight.

Jason keeps his posture open, his finger underneath Deans chin pressing softly, not applying enough pressure to make him feel like he has no choice in wherever this thing might lead.

 _Fuck it,_ says Dean inwardly.

He leans forward, and presses his lips to Jason’s.

Jason’s lips are wet and wide as he smiles into the kiss, cupping Dean’s face with warm palms.

A myriad of things are flitting through Dean’s head at this moment. Mostly of the ‘ _oh my God’_ , and ‘ _what the fuck what the fuck’_ variety. But as Jason slides his hand up his thigh and shifts his leg over the older boy’s lap, his mind goes blissfully blank.

Dean’s body rolls to straddle the firm, hot lap beneath him as Jason sweeps his hands up and down the other boy’s sides and the shifting muscles of his back, licking wetly at his lips as they continue to kiss.

The sounds of breathing and groaning and cloth shuffling against cloth fills the room, Dean rolls and gyrates his hips slowly, steadily, drawing a gasp and a rough whisper of, ‘ _fuck, freckles_ ’ from the other boy.

The boys grind and rub hotly, desperately, longing for more skin and more touch but not wanting to let go for a single second in order to achieve it.

Among the arousal, Dean feels a sickly, oozingly itchy feeling gripping at his throat, trying to claw it’s way up his neck and latch onto his face and yell, _‘wrong, this is wrong.’_ Jason’s hand resting heavily on his crotch pulls him partly out of it, but the sick feeling does not pass.

The anticipation of the hand currently moving to unzip his jeans overwhelms the urge to shift and move and shout and _run the fuck away._ And as Jason looks up at him, breaking their kiss to search his eyes for confirmation, Dean feels a single second of calm.

He nods once, firmly.

He grinds down hard into Jason’s lap as his wet cock is freed from the plain black boxers, the waistband of them rubbing teasingly along the lower shaft, making his thighs clench.

The two boys rest their foreheads together, sharing hot breath between their needily open mouths as Jason moves one wide palm to wrap around Dean’s red erection.

Dean cries out, the older boy reacts by moving his other hand to gently cover his spit-slick mouth.

“Shh, babe,” Jason rasps, “it’s okay, c’mon.”

The hand around his pulsating cock speeds up as he feels his stomach clench and roll with the anticipation of release, grinding down faster, with more purpose into the lap beneath him, feeling the bulge of Jason’s cock pressing against his ass.

Orgasm nearing, Dean arches his neck, making little ‘ah, ah’ noises against the sticky palm pressed to his mouth, pulling the older boy’s head into the hollow of his throat by his sweat-damp black curls and enjoying the feeling of hot breath against the sensitive column of flesh.

Jason’s hand leaves his mouth, leaving him to gasp out, “I’m gonna- God, I’m gonna-.”

“C’mon then,” Jason looks right into his eyes as he presses his thumb into the slit of Dean’s cock, holding him painfully on the edge, “come for me, freckles.”

And Dean does, hips stuttering, shooting all over himself and Jason, burying his face into damp dark hair and crying out as his muscles clench and unclench rapidly.

His mind momentarily blanks out and he slumps, boneless, into the body beneath him.

Before the sick feeling comes back.

As Dean takes in his position, now lying on the bed covered in his own come as Jason rubs his back and tries to move out from underneath him, he feels bile rise in his throat.

He quickly scrambles off of the other boy, still exhausted, and buries himself in the itchy blankets, ignoring the dejected look from Jason.

He also tries to ignore it as the other boy moves behind him under the covers and slides a hand around his waist to rest on his stomach. He attempts to shuffle further away towards the edge of the bed, putting distance between them, but it only results in him feeling worse and considerably more uncomfortable.

Dean falls asleep at around 3am, feeling cold and sick and longing tiredly for his mother’s soothing voice.

 

 

 

* * *

 

The sound of heavy footsteps outside of the room wakes Dean up, he vaguely notes that he has moved to press against Jason in his sleep before the door is thrown open and-

It’s dad.

It’s dad, standing inside the room turned to face the bed, eyes furiously wide, nostrils flaring, fists clenching.

Dean is wide awake now, throwing the covers up and holding his hands out in defense as John stomps angrily towards where he is still lying in his come-stained t-shirt with another boy’s hand around his waist.

“D-Dad! I can-,” veins are emerging on John’s forehead, accentuating the expression of pure rage on his face as he moves to rip the covers off of the two boys.

Jason is awake now, groggily becoming aware of what is going on.

“What?!,” John yells, grappling for Dean’s wrist, the boy protesting, cowering into himself at the sound of his father’s bellowing voice. “You can _what_? Speak up boy!”

Dean vaguely hears the sound of Jason starting to vocally protest with a series of mumbling, ‘ _hey!_ ’s.

John evidently has had enough. He yanks his son’s arm harshly, pulling him roughly off of the bed so he lands achingly hard on the hardwood floor, disoriented.

“Whoa, whoa!” Jason is shouting now, contending with John’s voice, ambling along the bed where he is tangled in the covers.

“Faggot!” John shouts, beginning to drag Dean across the floor by his now reddening arm.

“Please!” Dean cries.

John viciously lets go of the boy’s arm, leaving him to scramble backwards until his back hits the bedframe, bracing himself, where Jason is now stood with a defensive posture.

“Please? _Please_?!” The man scoffs.

Boys are beginning to gather around the outside of the room, some curiously peering in, others covering their mouths in horror, whispering frantically to each other.

“I leave you alone for _one week_ ,” he slowly stalks towards where Dean is pressed fearfully into the side of the bed, “You leave your brother on his own, unprotected-” now stopping to stand over the boy, “-to go and turn into a fucking queer?!”

Hot, angry tears are flowing from Deans’ eyes, he wills himself to stop.

“Stop crying! Hunters don’t cry, boy!”

“I’m sorry, Dad, I-.”

“No,” John shouts firmly, taking a heaving breath, “now I’m gonna have to fix this too.”

The words send chills down Dean’s spine, but he knew, he fucking _knew_ that all of this was a mistake. Wrong. So fucking _stupid._

“You and me are gonna spend some time together, like we planned” John says calmly, as if nothing happened, “and we’re gonna do whatever we gotta to do in order to fix you. You hear me?”

Dean nods dumbly.

“Good.”

Jason is still standing there looking scared and angry when he suddenly yells, “What the hell kind of father are you, man?!”

John regards him calmly, “I’m the only one he’s got. He might as well get used to it.”

Dean slowly guides himself into a standing position on shaky legs, shaking off Jason’s hand when he raises it to touch his shoulder.

He follows his father out of the room, not sparing a single glance back to where the other boy is dejectedly standing, a pained but understanding look on his face.

As Dean follows his father out of the cottage, ignoring the protests of the staff, he vows to himself to hide better. To make sure that nobody ever sees him – sees _this_ \- ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3


End file.
